Chapter One
Afterward everyone said the memorial service had been
poignant yet beautiful, exactly what Jud would have
wanted. But not yet, Abby protested despairingly,
silently, not at forty-eight years old! For days she had
said little or nothing, as if her vocal cords had frozen,
she had lost the power of speech. People held her hand,
embraced her, patted her, and she understood that they
were trying to express something, but she could feel
herself adding layer after layer of protective, invisible
shielding against every touch, removing herself in a way
that kept her numb and rigid, unresponsive to their
sympathy, unable to stop adding to the cocoon that might
keep her safe. Shock, they said; she was still in shock.
Exactly what her father had ordered, the funeral
director assured her, even to the box that Jud had
provided along with his instructions. He placed the box in
her hands deferentially, then walked away with his head
bowed until he had cleared the crematorium chapel, when he
straightened and walked more briskly.
"Honey, we have to leave now," Brice said at her
elbow. He took the box from her, held it under his arm,
and put his other arm around her shoulders, guided her
toward the door. People were waiting. Jud's parents from
California, Lynne—Abby's mother from Seattle—Brice's
parents from Idaho, friends, strangers ... Lynne had said
the family would have to go back to the house after it was
over; everyone would expect coffee, wine, something to
help ease them back to the world of the living. She would
take care of things, she had promised, that's what shehad
come for, to help Abby; then she wept. Abby had looked at
her in wonder. Her parents had been divorced for so many
years, why was she crying now?
"Mrs. Connors?" Another stranger, another outsider.
She paused, expecting him to hold out his hand, kiss
her cheek, something.
"I'm Lieutenant Caldwell," he said
apologetically. "State special investigations. I need to
talk to you—"
Brice's hand tightened on her shoulder. "You can't be
serious!" he said. "Not now!"
"No, no," he said quickly. "Of course not now. But
tomorrow? Around ten in the morning?"
Abby accepted this as numbly as she had accepted
everything else. She nodded.
"We've already told the police everything we know,"
Brice said. He tugged at her shoulder; she started to move
again.
"I understand," Caldwell said, still apologetic. "I'll
explain in the morning. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Connors."
Then he was gone, and they walked out into a fine light
rain.
There were a lot of reporters, a camera crew, others
waiting. After years of struggling, Judson Vickers had
become an overnight bestselling author; his death by
murder was news, at least today it was news. Abby walked
past the crowd blindly.
That night, after the mourners had gone, and only her
mother remained for one more night, Lynne said almost
pleadingly that she didn't have to go back to Seattle yet
if Abby wanted her to stay on a few days.
Abby shook her head. "There's no point. In the
morning the police are coming to ask more questions, and
in the afternoon Christina Maas is coming. There are
things we have to talk about. That's how it's going to be
for a while." Her voice sounded strange, as if muffled by
layers of cotton.
Lynne looked at Brice, and he shrugged
helplessly. "It's been a tough few days," he said. "We'll
be okay after we've had a little rest. I'll take you to
the airport in the morning."
Her mother was going to cry again, Abby thought
guiltily, and she still didn't know why, and couldn't ask.
Not now. And Brice ... She knew she was shutting him out
exactly the way she was closing out everyone else, and she
knew it was unfair, even cruel, but she couldn't help
that, either. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, to
wait on her, do whatever he could, and she was like a
stick in his arms. Silently she began to gather plates,
cups, and saucers.... Her friends Jonelle and Francesca
had brought food, she remembered; it all looked strange
and unfamiliar.
"Honey, please, go take a long bath, try to relax,"
Brice said. "We'll take care of this."
With the unquestioning obedience of a good child, she
left the room to go take a long bath. She could hear their
voices as she went up the stairs; talking about her, the
state she was in, she thought distantly. The house was
usually spacious feeling, with three bedrooms, two baths,
stairs with a plush, pale green carpet, a nice Aubusson
rug in the living room, a carpet in the den, drapes
throughout; room enough, with sound-deadening furnishings,
so that voices carried no farther than from one room to
another, yet she imagined she could hear them all the way
up the stairs, through the hallway, the bedroom, on into
the bathroom, even after she turned on the water. She went
back to the bedroom for her gown and robe, and came to a
stop holding them.
The voices were not her mother's and Brice's, she
realized, but her mother's and her father's, or her
father's voice talking to her, telling her something
important. That's what he would say: "This is important,
listen up now."
She took a step and staggered, and only then
recognized her fatigue, that she was reeling, maybe even
hallucinating from sleeplessness. Tonight, she told
herself, tonight she would take one of the pills her
doctor had prescribed. She would give herself half an hour
and if by then she was still wide awake, she would take a
pill. Dimly she remembered that she had made the same
promise the previous night, but instead had sat huddled in
a blanket on the couch in the dark living room, dreading
today, the relatives, the memorial service, remembering
Jud, denying his death, willing him not to be dead,
willing it not to have happened, afraid of the pill that
promised sleep, because it seemed to offer a kind of death
to her.
Later, while Brice was getting ready for bed, Abby went to
tell her mother good night, to thank her for coming. She
felt awkward, as if in the presence of an acquaintance,
not her mother.
Lynne was in the guest room, the room Abby called her
study. She stood in the middle of the room, wearing her
robe, holding the dress she had worn earlier, and for a
moment they simply regarded each other. Then Lynne dropped
the dress and took Abby in her arms. "I wanted to be with
you," she said softly, "but I didn't know what to say, how
to act with you. Abby, baby, please say something, talk to
me. Yell at me. Anything!"
Abby gazed past her mother silently and offered no
resistance to the embrace, but neither did she return it.
People had always said she looked like her mother, and she
had denied it, had seen only the differences, not the
similarities; they were the same height, and Lynne was
only a few pounds heavier, her hair was as dark as Abby's
and, out of the chignon she had had it in, hung straight
to her shoulders, like her daughter's. They both had dark
blue eyes and heavy eyebrows, bold and thick, without a
curve, much less a peak. The likeness, remarkable as it
was, appeared superficial to Abby. The image of her mother
that rose in her memory was of a face contorted with
anger: a mouth pinched in fury or downturned in
resentment; glaring, red-rimmed eyes; her voice loud and
shrill, out of control in her rage or whining in self-
pity.
She disengaged herself and drew back, picked up her
mother's dress and took it to the closet, placed it on a
hanger.
"I can't talk right now," she said, her back to
Lynne. "Not right now. I'll come visit you in a few
weeks."
"No, don't come up to Seattle. Call me and I'll come
down here. We'll go to the coast for a day or two. Will
you do that?" She was pleading again.
Abby closed her eyes hard for a moment, then opened
them and turned around. "Yes. I'll call you when things
settle down again. We'll go to the coast." She didn't know
if she was lying or not. But they both had known she
wouldn't go to Seattle; she didn't like Lynne's husband or
her own half brother, Jason. "Good night, Mom. Sleep well.
I'm glad you came. Thanks."
Back in her own room Brice was already in bed. They
had twin beds pushed together, his mattress not as firm as
hers, but he was on her side, waiting for her.
"I need a little more time," she said, taking off her
robe. "I'm sorry, but I need a little more time. I took a
pill and I think I'll sleep okay tonight."
"I just want to hold you," he said. When she got in
beside him, he held her tenderly, stroking her shoulder,
demanding nothing. She stared dry-eyed into the darkness
of the room.
Later, when he kissed her cheek and moved to his own
bed, she pretended to be asleep and listened to his
breathing change. He had a little snore, one that she was
used to and sometimes even found comforting, but she felt
herself go tense when he snored now. She waited longer,
then silently got up, felt for her robe, and left the
bedroom.
The third bedroom had been turned into a study where
Brice often worked at home. She entered and closed the
door. There was no need for a light; his computer monitor
was enough. An endless stream of aircraft flew silently
by: zeppelins, the Wright brothers' first plane, SSTs,
747s, biplanes, helicopters, all forever flying from the
void, going nowhere. Their ever-changing light flowed over
the top of the funereal box, which Brice had placed on his
desk.
She had seen the box before; it was mahogany so dark,
it looked black, finely carved all over with intricate
patterns of flowers and birds—a souvenir from his R&R on
Bali, Jud had said.
"They carve everything," he had said that afternoon at
the lake. "They'll start carving a living tree while it's
still standing, the damnedest thing you can imagine—
demons, birds, gods, snakes, flowers.... And they carve it
for eight feet up, ten feet.... They carve the undersides
of stairs, where no one will ever see the art. They carve
the concrete walls at the airport...."
"Why?"
"I think it's a religious act," he said
thoughtfully. "Nothing else quite explains it. They're
expressing their religion through art. Little boys, four
years old, five, they're already artists. They do the
traditional things the same way their ancestors from the
beginning of time did them, and then they do their own
thing on the back of stairs, on boxes, whatever is at
hand. In that climate nothing lasts very long except
stone, and when the paint fades, gets washed away, or
eaten by mold, they repaint it exactly the way it had been
before. If a wooden object or building crumbles, they
rebuild it exactly as it was before. You can't tell by
looking if anything was made that morning or a hundred
years ago. They're preserving the past, keeping the faith,
but here or there, hidden away, they express whatever it
is they need to say through their art."
She had felt the box all over, the delicate tracery of
flowers and stems, and thought that it was a magic box,
that it contained secrets no one would ever decipher,
except the boy who had carved it.
"Honey," Jud had said that day, "this is important,
listen up. When I die, I want my ashes to be buried in
this box, here by the lake. I might never ask another
thing of you, but this is important. Will you do that for
me?"
She had nodded solemnly. At ten years of age, she had
not yet believed in dying. It did not occur to her to ask
why he was telling her, not her mother. The divorce came
two years after that. Perhaps he had already known Lynne
would not be around to carry out his wishes.
She touched the box on Brice's desk and again felt the
mystery of the carved wood, the unknown, unknowable
mystery of the artist who had carved it.
She felt the mystery of the man whose ashes were
inside it, her father, unknown, unknowable forever now.
Chapter Two
She ended up taking the sleeping pill that night and slept
until Brice shook her awake at nine.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
Human, she thought, human monster with a watermelon
for a head and leaden legs; that's what sleeping pills did
to her. But feeling anything at all was an improvement.
She said, "Okay," and pulled herself up and out of bed.
"You should have gotten me up," she said in mild
protest at the kitchen table when Brice said he already
had taken her mother to the airport.
"Honey, you were a walking zombie, out on your feet. I
just wish that idiot cop hadn't said ten this morning; I
would have let you sleep until noon, or even all day." He
was opposite her at the breakfast table, studying her face
anxiously.
She drank her coffee, and when she started to rise to
get the carafe, he jumped up and hurried across the
kitchen; in passing, he kissed the top of her head.
"Let me wait on you for just a little while. You don't
know how I've felt, wanting to do something, anything. I
watched you sleeping," he said, pouring the coffee, "and I
wanted to sit there and not even breathe, just watch you."
"I'm ... I'm sorry," she whispered, not looking up at
him.
"Oh, Christ! I didn't mean to dump a guilt trip on
you. I've just been so goddamn helpless."
"I know."
She did know. They had been married for four years,
and it was a good marriage; he was a tender and passionate
lover; he brought her unexpected presents, listened
attentively when she talked about the museum, her work
there, her dissertation that was going nowhere; he, in
turn, talked about his clients, the others in the office,
his plans. They were lucky, she knew, especially when her
friends talked about this couple or that, or their own
failed marriages or affairs, or when she remembered her
first marriage, she realized again how lucky they were.
She understood and cherished what they had, but this week
she had not wanted anyone to touch her, not her mother,
not friends, not relatives, and not him.
He touched her hair now, a fairy touch, light and
tentative; although she willed herself not to flinch, not
to stiffen, something was communicated, and he drew
back. "Well," he said in a strained voice, "that cop is
due any minute now. After he leaves, I have to check in at
the office for a few hours. Will you be okay?"
She nodded, aware only then that he had on a suit and
tie, dressed for the office. She couldn't remember if he
had gone in at all that week. Had he gone in to report on
the weekend meeting? He must have, she thought miserably;
his world hadn't caved in the way hers had. She simply
hadn't paid any attention, like now, not noticing that he
was dressed for clients, dressed for business in a good
gray suit, maroon silk tie, shirt dazzling white. At
thirty-four, he was even more handsome than when they
married. Marriage agreed with him, he sometimes said
jokingly. She wondered if his folks had left town yet, if
they were driving home to Idaho, the potato farm. His
father's hands had been spotlessly clean, she thought, and
her mind skittered off in yet another direction.
That was how she had been all week, unable to focus on
any one thing for more than a few seconds and left with no
memory of what she had been thinking. A persistent thought
recurred: if he had had a fight with his father, he had to
make amends now, before it was too late.
Just then the doorbell rang. She had forgotten that
the policeman had said he would come at ten, and she
glanced down at herself in dismay; she was in jeans and an
old sweater.
"Finish your coffee," Brice said. "I'll take him to
the living room."
She left the coffee and followed him to the front
door, where he was admitting the policeman and a woman
with short brown hair so curly, it was almost too frizzy.
"Lieutenant Caldwell, and this is Detective Varney,"
the policeman said politely, as if aware that she had no
memory of their names.
She nodded, and Brice said briskly, "Well, come on in.
Do you want to take off your jacket and coat?"
Caldwell was wearing a windbreaker; Detective Varney
had a long dark green raincoat. She pulled it off, then
held it, but he shook his head. "It's okay. Beautiful day
out there, just right, not too hot, not too cool. And not
raining," he added, making a leisurely examination of the
foyer, of Brice and Abby, everything. He was a stocky man
in his forties, heavy through the shoulders and chest,
with dark hair turning gray at the temples, and dark eyes.
Everything about him seemed too deliberate, too slow, as
if he never had rushed in his life and would not be rushed
now.
"This way," Brice said, steering them toward the
living room, where he and Abby sat on the sofa, and the
lieutenant and detective sat in identical tapestry-covered
chairs. The detective did not relax, but Caldwell settled
back, crossed his legs, and examined the living room with
the same methodical scrutiny he had given the foyer.
"Nice house," Caldwell said finally.
Abby could feel her stomach muscles tightening harder
and harder. The house was nice, with good, maybe Danish
furniture, good original art on the walls, even if not
very much of it. There was a grouping of netsuke on the
mantel; the lieutenant's gaze lingered on it as if in
appraisal.
Expensive, she wanted to say. Too expensive. Brice had
brought home two of them from a trip to Los Angeles, her
first anniversary gift, startling her. Take them back, she
should have said; we can't afford them. But they were so
beautiful....
"Well, we're not selling and you're not buying, so
let's get on with it," Brice said, glancing at his
watch. "I already told you we've given statements to the
local police. What more do you need?"
Lieutenant Caldwell faced Abby and Brice then. "You
see, Mr. Connors, that place where the crime happened is
sort of in a no-man's-land, the lake and all. Part in one
county, part in another, it makes for confusion. In cases
like this they often call in the state investigators, and
that's what happened this time. And just to keep things
straight in my own head, I'd like to go over your
statements again, get it firsthand, so to speak." He
shrugged, almost apologetically, it seemed. "And, of
course, you might have remembered something during the
past few days that you didn't think of when the sheriff
talked to you."
"I can only repeat what I said before," Brice said
wearily. "On Friday I drove to Portland for a business
meeting with associates from my company. We had dinner
together and talked until about ten-thirty. I went to bed
around twelve. I had to make notes about the meeting; it
took a while. On Saturday morning I checked out, drove
down to Salem and had breakfast there, and then drove
home. I gave the sheriff copies of the log of my trip and
my receipts. And they already took our fingerprints, they
said for elimination purposes. That's all I can tell you."
Caldwell had been listening intently, consulting a
notebook from time to time. He nodded. "Your firm is
Hartmann and Fine Financial Services?"
"Yes. The head office is in Bellingham; there's an
office in Spokane, one in Olympia, in Portland, Salem, and
here in Eugene. A representative from each office attended
the meeting."
"Your company in trouble?"
"No. It's not like that! If you read the newspapers,
you know how the market's been for over a year, crazy
swings up and down. We have clients who get antsy when it
gyrates like that. We've been having these meetings once a
month over the past year. Purely routine."
"You always go?"
"No. There are three of us here in the Eugene office;
we take turns. They aren't exactly pleasure jaunts,
Lieutenant. It happened to be my turn."
Caldwell nodded, as if everything Brice said checked
out with the notes he had. Then he said, "I understand
that some of the associates share rides. Do you do that?"
"No," Brice said stiffly. "Dave Fulton is in Salem,
and I would have stopped and picked him up, but I planned
to stay over Friday night, and he didn't. So we drove up
separately."
"Do you usually stay up there overnight?"
"That was the first time," Brice said. "The other
times I went I didn't get home until after two in the
morning. We never know when the meetings will end, and no
matter when I go to bed, I'm awake by six-thirty. I
decided to stay and get some sleep this time since Abby
would be gone."
"Did you check in at your office here in town before
you drove up to Portland?"
Brice's impatience was clearly strained almost past
endurance. "I already told them. No. Abby didn't have to
go to work until nine, and we lazed about that morning. I
left when she did."
The lieutenant asked more questions: where he had
stayed, the names of his associates, where they had met,
had dinner, where he had had breakfast. All things Brice
had gone through with the sheriff, all things already in
his notebook, Abby felt certain. Brice's tension was
almost palpable; she took his hand and held it. At first
he was as stiff and unresponsive as she had been all week,
then he squeezed her hand and she could feel his tension
ease. They were both like that, she thought fleetingly,
coiled so hard and tight that a word, an expression, a
breeze might make either of them erupt in some
unpredictable way.
"Okay," Caldwell said at last, and turned to
Abby. "Mrs. Connors, you want to tell me about Friday?"
She moistened her lips and released her hand from
Brice's grasp, which had grown increasingly hard. "I was
at the coast with friends."
He smiled at her. "In just a little more detail,
maybe?"
"Jonelle, Jonelle Saltzman, picked me up when I got
off work at about two, and we drove out. To Yachats. Emma
Olson and Francesca Tremaine came out a little later. We
walked around, ate dinner, and talked until very late. On
Saturday the deputy came to tell me. Jonelle brought me
home."
"This is something you do often, go spend the weekend
with your pals?"
"Once a year, sometimes twice."
"Who made the reservation?"
"I did. At the Blue Horizon Cottages."
"Why that weekend?"
"Since Brice would be away, and the others could make
it, it seemed a good time."
"When's the last time you folks were at the lake, Mrs.
Connors?"
She moistened her lips again. "August."
"I understand your father called you on Friday
morning. Is that right?"
She nodded.
"What did he say? How did he sound?"
"He asked if I could come over for the weekend, and I
said I couldn't." She realized that the other detective,
the woman, was watching her hands, and she glanced down
and saw them clutching each other almost spasmodically.
She flexed her fingers and spread them, then let her hands
rest in her lap. "If I'd gone, it wouldn't have happened,"
she said in a low voice. "I could have gone there instead
of to the coast. If I—"
"For God's sake, Abby! You might have been killed,
too," Brice said. "You couldn't have stopped the maniac
who shot him. You would have been killed with him."
"Do you remember exactly what he said that morning?"
Caldwell said, ignoring Brice.
She nodded. "He was happy and excited. He said, `This
is important. I have something to tell you.' He was
laughing and happy. And I said I couldn't."
"Did he say what was important?"
She shook her head. "I asked if he could come to town
on Saturday, that we could all have dinner Saturday night,
and he said he'd just stay put and work."
Brice put his arm around her shoulders, squeezed her
shoulder lightly. "Lieutenant Caldwell, tell her she
couldn't have prevented what happened out there. It wasn't
her fault."
Abby avoided glancing at him; he sounded desperate,
pleading. A glance now might be the cue that would make
her erupt into tears. And she was determined not to cry,
not now. Get through this, that was all that mattered.
"Tell me about the dog," Caldwell said, paying no
attention whatsoever to Brice.
Brice squeezed her shoulder harder.
"Spook? What about her?" Abby asked.
"Mr. Halburtson said she barked during the night, all
the next morning. Did she bark a lot?"
Coop Halburtson was the nearest neighbor to her
father's cabin; he always heard Spook when she barked.
Abby shook her head. "No. Just if a raccoon came around,
or a cougar, or a stranger, something like that."
"Did the dog stay out every night?"